


not all those who wander are lost

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: sable and sloe [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-12 16:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11741055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: Several months after Natasha leaves Wakanda, she's called back by T'Challa. Bucky's gone. There's something T'Challa won't tell her. And the jungle is a dangerous place to be.





	1. all that is gold does not glitter

Natasha’s in Tokyo when she gets a ping on her private email server, the one she only gives out to a select few. It’s from an encrypted IP address, but routed via a server in Eastern Africa, and – ah.

 _Miss Romanoff,_ says the email, painfully formal. _I require your assistance with an urgent matter. Please come to Birnin Zana at your earliest convenience._ Signed, _Your friend and king of Wakanda, T’Challa, Son of T’Chaka._

In two hours she’s verified it’s a genuine message. In twelve she’s boarding a plane bound for the newly christened King T’Chaka International Airport.

\--

T’Challa meets Natasha in her hotel room, with curtains drawn, door locked, _Do Not Disturb_ sign on door. There’s a Dora Milaje outside too. “Miss Romanoff,” he says, one hand on front of his charcoal silk jacket.

“Your Highness.” She’s facing him, luggage behind her with pistol in easy reach, and a clear line of sight to both the door and the windows.

His eyes narrow. “You changed your hair,” he says, almost accusatory.

Natasha allows herself a tiny smirk. “I was trying to blend in.”

“I liked it better red,” T’Challa sniffs.

She thought they’d parted on good terms, four months ago, but apparently not. “It’s hair, it grows back,” she says, with her blandest, politest smile.

Shoulders tight, hands held at his sides, T’Challa paces for a few steps. “I need your help,” he says stiffly, cheeks darkening slightly, and – _oh._ He’s not angry at her. He’s embarrassed. “With a sensitive situation.”

Natasha sits down on the bed, leans back on her hands. “All right,” she says, letting amusement color her voice. “Who did you kill?”

“I did not kill anyone.” T’Challa looks at her blankly. “Nor do I need someone killed.”

“No, I’m sure you’re quite capable of that on your own –”

“Barnes has vanished.”

Cold prickles down her spine and Natasha sits up straight, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“He’s left the facility and we can’t find him. No trace of where he was going, no signs of violence or kidnapping. He simply went away in the middle of the night.”

“Have you tried leaving a bowl of food out for him?” She can’t resist making the quip; when T’Challa just frowns uncomprehendingly at her she adds, “Because he’s kind of like a stray cat, you know –”

“Ah.”

“Maybe he just needed to be alone for a little while. He might come back.”

“It has been five days.”

T’Challa meets her eyes, dead serious in the darkened hotel room, and Natasha lets out a deep breath. Right. “You really need me for this?”

“I am a warrior, not a spy. I cannot track him down on my own. Besides,” and T’Challa’s expression softens slightly for the first time, “you knew Barnes. You assisted in his recovery.”

 _Tried to,_ thinks Natasha. _Clearly it wasn’t enough._ “All right,” she says out loud. “What about Steve? Does he know?”

“I was hoping we could locate Barnes without his assistance.” T’Challa is pacing again, straight-backed and uncomfortable. “Rogers entrusted Barnes to my care, and I pledged that he would be safe –”

“Hey,” says Natasha, and moves her bag so there’s space on the bed beside her. “C’mere. Sit down.”  

He obeys, sitting just close enough so their thighs and shoulders brush, elbows on his knees, turning his father’s ring over and over on his finger. “I cannot imagine how he evaded the security cameras.”

“I can.” Natasha studies T’Challa’s profile, his dark eyes, the faint gleam on his umber skin from light through the yellow curtains. “You’re sure Bucky decided to leave on his own?”

“We would have noticed otherwise. But I have not ruled out the possibility that he has been captured or kidnapped since.”

“If INTERPOL or SHIELD had him we would know by now,” murmurs Natasha.

“Or a third party could have captured him and are waiting to sell him to the highest bidder.”

Natasha’s stomach turns uneasily. “Yeah.”

“There are still people in this country who believe him to be responsible for my father’s murder,” says T’Challa, somber. “My father was a well-loved man. I can imagine that they would go to great lengths to avenge him.”

There are traces of pain and sorrow on his face and he bows his head, still turning the ring. Natasha decides on a rare moment of honesty. “I missed you,” she says quietly.

T’Challa stiffens, drawing himself up and staring straight ahead. Not quite the reaction she was hoping for. Getting to his feet, he says, “You are a difficult woman to understand, Miss Romanoff.”

“That’s usually the vibe I go for, yeah.” She masks her bemusement; maybe there was more to his prickly attitude than just embarrassment.

“There’s a helicopter waiting for us. We should leave immediately.” And without a backward glance he opens the door and strides out of the room.

\--

They don’t talk on the flight to the facility. Granted, helicopters aren’t good places to have conversations anyway. But Natasha watches T’Challa, and he’s tense the entire time. It might just be the situation, but she doesn’t think so. Not with the way he keeps avoiding looking at her.

All right, fine. If T’Challa’s got a stick up his ass about something she did or didn’t do, that’s not Natasha’s problem. She’s here for Bucky. Complete the mission, make sure Bucky’s all right, and then go on back to her life.

Crossing one leg over the other, she ignores the drone of helicopter blades and watches the landscape of Wakanda pass underneath her, green fields, greener jungle, and mountains rising up out of the shreds of mist.

\--

There’s no sign of Bucky on any of the feeds from the various cameras around the compound. But it’s not a prison, and there’s gaps and shadows where he could hide. “Did he take a vehicle?” asks Natasha.

The head of security, a severe-looking man called Admassu, shakes his head. “All are accounted for.”

So he must have gone by foot then. But there’s nothing but jungle for miles and miles. Natasha stifles a sigh; she can track, but she doesn’t enjoy it, and her skills are honed more for the Siberian wilderness than the Wakandan jungle. “All right,” she says, getting to her feet. “Thank you.”

\--

“If we could do a fly-over and scan for Barnes, we would.” T’Challa sighs, reclining with a sort of formal elegance in his chair; there’s an unhappy tension to the lines of his mouth, his eyebrows, even the way he holds his hands. “But it would attract too much attention. And the heat and the vegetation makes scanning difficult as well.”

Natasha, perched on the desk in T’Challa’s modest office, resists being distracted by memories of what they did the last time they were in this room. “We can’t find him on foot. Not without support.”

“The more people I bring in, the less secure this mission becomes,” snaps T’Challa. “I am not risking word getting out that I let a wanted war criminal out of my custody.”

Before she can stop herself, Natasha responds, “ ‘Criminal’ implies responsibility for the actions he was forced to commit.”

T’Challa gestures away her words like he might a buzzing fly. “Not everyone sees the situation with the same nuance you do.”

She’s worried about Bucky, and that makes her angry; Natasha glares at T’Challa and he stares stonily back. “So,” she says, “you’re proposing I just walk into the forest and track down Bucky on my own –”

“Not on your own.” T’Challa’s cheeks darken. “I would go with you.”

He doesn’t sound happy about it. Natasha frowns at him, trying to figure out his mood. “What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“T’Challa.” He should know better than to bluff her, of all people. “You’ve been on edge ever since I came here. What is it?”

Scowling, T’Challa taps his fingers on the arms of the chair. “The current situation is not to my liking.”

“All right.” He’s not telling the truth – not all of it, at least – but she’ll get to the bottom of it later. Or wait until his attitude becomes an actual problem. “So then it’s just you and me.” T’Challa’s gaze flashes up to meet hers at that, eyes dark, and there’s a sudden spark of connection, a brief heat in her chest. _Oh,_ thinks Natasha. _That’s right. That’s what it’s like._

“We leave tomorrow morning,” says T’Challa shortly, standing up. “At dawn.” And before Natasha has a chance to appreciate his height and the breadth of his shoulders he’s swept out of the room.


	2. not all those who wander are lost

Night falls, thick and heavy as velvet, and thanks to jet lag Natasha knows she won’t sleep – not without pharmaceutical help, at least. Before she knocks herself out, though, she goes to Bucky’s room. The door is slightly ajar, lights off, and she flicks on a lamp to reveal a room so impeccable and empty it’s almost as if no one’s lived there at all. The bed is made. All clothes are folded and put away. There’s no sign of his backpack, even when Natasha goes through the wardrobe drawers, checks under the bed (and under the mattress, and behind the headboard).

An uneasy chill trickles down her back like cold water. Something’s _wrong_ , desperately so, but she can’t put her finger on it yet. She continues searching, methodical and painstakingly thorough, but there’s nothing, no hint of an indication where he might go, he didn’t even leave a note –

Natasha freezes, halfway through turning out the contents of Bucky’s underwear drawer. _I’m broken,_ he’d told her. _And nothing’s going to put me right again._

“No,” she whispers. She thought – she wouldn’t have left if –

Dropping the pair of socks, she staggers to her feet, shaking hands clenched in fists. _Breathe,_ Natasha orders herself. _Calm down. You can panic later._

She takes a deep breath, cataloguing options. The only way Bucky would have access to weapons is if he stole them from security staff. Doesn’t seem likely. Medication is also tightly regulated, locked away behind key codes and fingerprint scanners. But Bucky wouldn’t want to cause a fuss or fight others, he slipped away quietly in the dead of night.

And then Natasha knows. Heart pounding, throat dry, she hurries out of the room and down the hallway, towards T’Challa’s quarters. _It’s been five days, it’s too late to do anything,_ a small, dark voice is whispering. _Why bother rushing?_

There’s two Dora Milaje at the door, relaxed but alert. “He is sleeping,” says one as Natasha approaches. “You cannot see him.”

“It’s urgent,” snaps Natasha.

Neither of the women look impressed. “Are we under attack?” says one, raising her eyebrows.

Natasha resists the urge to scowl at them, and instead goes for collected superiority. “I need to speak to him.”

The women exchange glances. “We will let him know when he wakes,” says the taller one.

They regard Natasha, cool and impassive, and all she can think about is Bucky standing on top of the panther statue, a ghost in the night, and silently stepping off into nothingness. “No,” is all she can manage to say. “ _Now._ ”

Both women frown, readying grips on their staffs, and Natasha tenses immediately. If she has to fight them, she will –

The door opens to reveal T’Challa, dressed in a dark silk robe and frowning. “What’s happening?”

“I think I know where Bucky went,” says Natasha immediately.

T’Challa looks at her sharply. “Come in,” he says, and Natasha pushes past the Dora Milaje, ignoring their sideways looks. As he closes the door behind her, Natasha instinctively scans the room for threats, and when there’s movement in her peripheral she whips around –

“It’s me,” says T’Challa, holding his hands up. “Just me.”

Still breathing hard, Natasha nods. “He jumped off,” she blurts, hoarse.

T’Challa’s frown deepens. “What?”

She wishes she could stop shaking. “He wanted to die. He might – he might have” – _why can’t she get the words out, why can’t she talk_ – “we used to go up on the panther statue, he might have –”

Grave as death, T’Challa says, “You think Barnes killed himself.”

“He might have. We need to go down there, look for…”

“For his body,” T’Challa finishes.

“Yeah.” Natasha turns to face him and wobbles on her feet. Oh. She’s lightheaded. She reaches out for a chair to steady herself.

T’Challa reaches for her with a look of real concern; he’s saying something, but she can’t hear what. _Sit down before you pass out,_ she tells herself, and does so.

One, two, three deep breaths later, and her head isn’t spinning so much. T’Challa hovers in front of her, close enough he could touch her if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Natasha shrugs. “I don’t know.” She is. She just doesn’t want to be.

Deliberating, T’Challa scrutinizes her, and then as if he’s come a decision he crouches so he can look her in the eyes. “Should we go now, or can it wait until tomorrow?” he asks quietly.

It’s been five days. If Bucky was going to do it, he’d have done it. And they’ll have better light in the morning. “It can wait.”

“All right.” Are Natasha’s eyes tricking her in the low light, or is there sympathy in his expression? “But please, Miss Romanoff, do not assume the worst yet.”

She searches T’Challa’s face. “Why?” is all she can manage to say.

For a long moment, he hesitates. “Because then there will be nowhere left to go.”

\--

The sun is just rising, the sky a pastel yellow-blue as mist still clings to the horizon. The air isn’t fresh and cool, but it hasn’t reached noonday levels of oppression either. Within the jungle, the birds are making a horrible racket.

Natasha and T’Challa halt their rides (a kind of hybrid between motorcyles and ATVs – four-wheeled and tough, but mobile and fast) at the foot of the cliff. “Around here, do you think?” asks T’Challa. He’s masked, eyes hidden behind silver slits.

Woodenly, Natasha kills her engine. “We should check the trees, too,” she says, and it hurts to put that into words.

T’Challa nods. A couple leaps and he’s gone, vanished into the thick canopy. For hours, Natasha searches, dreading stumbling across Bucky’s body and yet feeling sicker and emptier when she doesn’t. If he’s not here, then where –

And the thing she’s been fighting ever since last night, this horrible, dull pounding thing made up of a hundred _I don’t knows_ and _what ifs_ and _this is your faults_ claws its way up her throat. When T’Challa comes back to her she’s still hunched over, holding onto a tree for support, coughing up the last of the bile.

“Jet lag,” rasps Natasha, straightening, aware of his eyes on her even from behind the mask. “Messes with my stomach.” She takes a swig from her water bottle, rinses and spits.

T’Challa watches her for so long she’s sure he’s coming up with some kind of lengthy response, some commentary on the situation, _something._ But when he does speak, all he says is, “You should drink more water. You’re not used to this climate.”

This does not deserve acknowledgement. “Did you find anything?” she asks, heart pounding.

Slowly, he shakes his head. “Perhaps we should check the statue itself.”

“Okay.” Natasha’s not going to rest until she’s checked every inch of this area, and even then the trees will always be full of ghosts. “Let’s go.”

\--

But there’s nothing up there either.

Sweating and slightly dizzy, Natasha pauses to catch her breath and stare at the land around her from their vantage point on the panther’s head. She’s regretting wearing the black bodysuit immensely. T’Challa’s must have some sort of cooling system built in.

“You see,” says T’Challa, with a hint of optimism in his voice, “perhaps what you feared did not happen after all.”

If only it were that easy. “There’s the waterfall.”

T’Challa follows her gaze across to where the water is tumbling, white and foamy, down the cliff face. “Ah.”

\--

Searching the area there turns up nothing as well. “Perhaps we should use dogs,” suggest T’Challa, as they reach the top of the falls.

“Bucky doesn’t like dogs,” pants Natasha, striding up over the final few rocks. “They had to fight them as part of their training.”

T’Challa makes a soft angry sound.  

The sun has passed its zenith at this point; the sky is a shimmering blue dome above them. Natasha is sure she’s sweated off five pounds by now. Before it reaches the falls, the river water is deep and swiftly flowing. She crouches down to splash water on the back of her neck, and that’s when she sees it – the imprint of a boot in mud at the river’s edge. It’s at least several days old, the edges blurred, but it’s deep and she can see the remnants of treads. “T’Challa,” she says, sharp.

A shadow falls across the ground as he stands over her. “Barnes?” he asks.

Natasha nods.

T’Challa walks past her, careful and surefooted. “There are more prints over here,” he says. “Heading upstream.”

Either it’s because she stood up too quickly, or it’s the relief, but Natasha feels lightheaded again. He didn’t jump. Wherever Bucky is, _he didn’t jump._ “What’s upstream?”

“More jungle.”

She catches up to him, matching his long strides. “So we just keep going?”

Pausing, T’Challa asks, “Do you think we should go back?”

Natasha squints at the sun, considering. “Depends on if you want to be outside at night or not.” They’ve got survival packs, they can stay out three, maybe four days. Hopefully they won’t need much more than that.

With a dry chuckle, T’Challa resumes moving. “I am not afraid of the dark, Miss Romanoff.”

“I don’t know,” she grumbles, keeping an eye out for more footprints as she walks. “For all I know you’ve got giant mutant lizards in there.”

“No, those we keep hidden in a secret underground lab.”

They keep walking, making slow progress along the rocks and boulders that make up most of the river edge, the occasional mark of a boot pointing them in the right direction. At this point Natasha has sweated so much she feels less like a human and more like a sponge in a catsuit.

“I want to apologize,” says T’Challa, after maybe twenty minutes of silence, breathing very slightly labored. “For my behavior yesterday. I was sharp with you, and I should not have been.”

Natasha navigates over a treacherously slanted boulder. “You gonna tell me what your issue was?”

She doesn’t really expect an answer. Just as well, because she doesn’t get one.


	3. the old that is strong does not wither

As dusk falls, the tracks have started heading into the forest. Natasha and T’Challa follow. By unspoken agreement they continue through the night, stopping only for a few hours’ rest, up and on their feet again before the sun has broken the horizon.

Maybe that’s why, as they head upwards into cloud forest, along the side of the mountain, T’Challa missteps. His foot slides off a rock, and he stumbles to catch himself, and steps at the wrong angle. His ankle rolls.

“Ha!” hisses T’Challa, staggering against a tree.

Natasha raises her eyebrows at him. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing.” Straightening, he attempts to put his weight on his foot and immediately recoils. “Shit.”

If anything is cause for alarm, it’s T’Challa swearing, but Natasha keeps a carefully blank face. “You twisted it?”

Rather than answer, he takes another experimental step, but his ankle clearly refuses to hold his weight and he nearly falls. “I might have,” T’Challa mutters.

Hands on her hips, Natasha sighs. The jungle here is thick and ancient, vines weaving between dark glossy leaves and moss-covered trunks. Beyond the canopy she can barely catch glimpses of the foggy sky. Birds call to each other occasionally, all but drowned out by the incessant chatter and buzz of insects. Sweaty hair sticks to Natasha’s forehead, and despite the elevation change it’s not much cooler. “So,” she says. “Now what.”

T’Challa gives her a look; despite the mask, she knows exactly what frustrated expression he’s making. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t walk, we’re not going to find Bucky like this,” she snaps. Except they have to, the clock is ticking and if Bucky’s captured, if he needs them –

“I can –” he snarls, immediately breaking off as he loses his balance again. “I just need a minute –”

Natasha sits down on a rock with a huff, takes a swig from her water bottle. After a couple more fruitless attempts, T’Challa hops over and gingerly seats himself beside her, injured leg stretched out in front of him. Sighing, he undoes the seals on his helmet, takes it off; he’s ashen and sweaty.

For a long time, maybe fifteen minutes, they sit in silence. A bead of sweat slides down Natasha’s neck, and she drinks again, the water warm and tasting faintly of plastic. “I… may not be able to continue,” T’Challa finally admits.

 _You think?_ Natasha resists the urge to say. “Can one of your people pick us up?”

Sighing, T’Challa leans his head into his hand. “I have no way to directly contact them.”

Natasha stares at him. “Well, shit.”

“I don’t exactly have phone service here,” he snaps.

“You’re the king of Wakanda, they let you just wander off into the jungle with no way to contact anybody?”

T’Challa’s face is drawn, either in irritation or pain. “There is a GPS tracker in my suit, if no one hears from me in three days a rescue team is sent to my location –”

“Oh, so we just have to wait here for two days,” murmurs Natasha. “Great.”

“Well, do you have a better idea?”

They glare at each other.

 “Well, if we’re going to be camping we might as well figure out where.” Natasha gets to her feet, brushes moss off herself. “I’ll make you a crutch.”

\--

She finds a forked branch tall and sturdy enough to take T’Challa’s weight. A little ways along the mountain face, there’s a cave, with a narrow uneven opening but just enough space inside for them both to stand. And incredibly conveniently, a spring only a half hour’s walk away.

T’Challa is stretched out on his sleeping roll when Natasha returns with water, hands folded over his stomach, staring up at the rocky ceiling. The bright LED of their lamp casts sharp shadows on his face. “We should take a look at your ankle,” she says.

He exhales slowly. “I suppose we should.”

The problem with supersuits like this (which Natasha is acutely aware of every time she has to pee) is that there’s no way to just take part of it off. It’s all or nothing.

Well, not _nothing,_ disappointingly. T’Challa’s got an undershirt and tight athletic shorts under there. Which she understands. Chafing.

Kneeling beside him, Natasha runs deft, probing fingers over his injured ankle, manipulating it. It’s not as swollen as it could be – maybe because it was confined in his boots – but it’s noticeably hot to the touch, and flushed dark. “It’s not looking good,” murmurs Natasha, gently rotating the ankle. T’Challa hisses. “Can you bend it?”

Trying to do so makes fresh beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. “No.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s broken, but…” Natasha sighs, cracks the little ice pack from their first aid kit to activate it and places it on his ankle, making T’Challa jump when the cold surface touches his skin. “Like I said. Not looking good.”

Legs extended in front of him, T’Challa leans back on his hands and grumbles something unintelligible. For all Wakandans are supposed to be “mysterious and inscrutable,” Natasha can read him just fine – the tightness of his lips and jaw, his embarrassment at being taken down by such a trivial injury; the high set of his shoulders, his frustration at being unable to keep looking for Bucky; the way his dark eyes keep flicking to her and away, that same undefinable tension that’s been between them.

Well, maybe she’s projecting a little.

“What will you do?” asks T’Challa.

“Hm?”

Apologetic, T’Challa says, “About Barnes.”

Natasha keeps her gaze fixed on his ankle, on wrapping it with tape. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I will be all right if you leave me.”

“I’m not leaving,” snaps Natasha immediately. Which is stupid, because Bucky should be her priority, but if she left T’Challa behind with a busted ankle and no firearms because he’s got some sort of idiotic honor code and something happened to him, she’d feel at least a little responsible. She already let Bucky down, she’s not making the same mistake with T’Challa. “Besides, you’re kind of my GPS.”

 “I am flattered to be of use,” says T’Challa wryly.

Smiling slightly, he meets her eyes; Natasha sits back on her heels, hands on her thighs. In the light of their survival lantern all the little details of his face are clear, his long eyelashes, the short hairs of his neatly-trimmed beard, the curve of his upper lip. After hours in the heat under a skin-tight suit, his undershirt is glued to his chest, and the muscles in his arms ripple like carved teak.

T’Challa’s gaze flicks over her face. “What is it?”

“We’re gonna be in here for a while,” says Natasha, crossing her legs. “You got any ideas for what to do? I left my checkers set at home.”

She’s hoping for some sort of banter, but T’Challa’s expression grows set and uncomfortable, and he looks away. All right, fine. Natasha scoots over to her side of the cave, leans her head against the wall, and closes her eyes.

\--

The patches of night sky visible beyond the trees are filled with stars in a way Natasha hasn’t seen in a long time, a million glittering diamonds and handfuls of silver dust splashed across the inky blackness. Even with the sun down, the air is warm and syrupy on her skin; a moth the size of her hand flits by, silent and gray as a ghost. Sighing, Natasha gazes up at the sky, hoping for even a hint of a breeze.

“I would not recommend staying outside much longer if you are not a fan of bugs,” says T’Challa, from the entrance to the cave. He’s standing, using the rock wall as support. “They are attracted to body heat.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? They dangerous?”

“Extremely deadly.” T’Challa is all straight-faced gravitas. “They have been known to strip a body of flesh in six seconds flat.”

“I thought that was piranhas.”

 T’Challa shrugs, and now there’s a definite twinkle in his eyes. “Piranha spiders. We are experimenting.”

“All right,” Natasha laughs, and looks back up at the sky.

“In all seriousness though, the mosquitos will eat you alive.”

They’re trying already. Natasha turns back and heads into the cave, following slowly behind T’Challa. Once inside, he lowers himself to the ground with a quiet groan, gingerly setting down his injured ankle. “All right, so no checkers,” says Natasha, sitting on a lump of rock opposite him. “Do you play chess?”

T’Challa rolls his eyes. But after a moment, his face softens and grows contemplative. “I would play chess with my father,” he says quietly. “For years and years, ever since I was old enough to know the rules. I still remember his face the first time I beat him.”

Elbows on her knees, hands laced together, Natasha watches him, studies the lines of his expression. “You play chess with anyone else now?” she asks.

Frowning slightly, T’Challa shakes his head. “I have not had the time.”

The silence in the cave grows, and grows. T’Challa massages his calf, eyebrows pinched in discomfort; there’s painkillers within easy reach of him, but he doesn’t make a move for them. “So,” says Natasha. “Now are you going to tell me what your problem was?”

T’Challa’s eyes narrow. “What problem?”

He knows what she means. Natasha just tilts her head and gives him a look.

“I told you,” mutters T’Challa, “I do not want to talk about it.”

“Why? Is it personal?”

He glares at her.

“You know, the KGB taught me a lot of advanced interrogation techniques –”

“Why is this important?” T’Challa demands, leaning towards her. “What does this have to do with anything –”

“We’re on mission together, if something’s wrong I should know –”

Shoulders hunching, he snaps, “Nothing’s wrong.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows.

“Nothing is wrong,” repeats T’Challa.

“Riiiiiight.”

T’Challa shoots her a dark look, takes a long drink from his water bottle. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, and Natasha watches his Adam’s apple bob. Maybe, for once, this is the time for sincerity. “T’Challa,” says Natasha quietly. “We owe each other better than this.” She can see her comment’s hit home by the drop of his shoulders, his quiet sigh. “What’s happened?”

Begrudgingly, slowly, T’Challa says, “You are what happened.”

Natasha goes still, pierced by something small and cold and sharp. “I thought you were fine with me leaving,” she says, keeping her voice carefully emotionless. “You said you would be.”

“And I thought I would be.” T’Challa fixes his gaze on her, eyes dark and burning. “But you have a way of remaining in my thoughts, Miss Romanoff.”

Heat prickles across Natasha’s face, chasing away the cold. “And that’s my fault?”

“No!” T’Challa shifts uncomfortably, sighs. “That is not my point.”

“Then what is?”

T’Challa frowns, clenches and unclenches his fists, for the first time in Natasha’s experience struggling with what to say. “I was completely honest with you about how I understood the nature of our relationship,” he says at last, each word careful and deliberate. “I never expected I would get attached.”

“Attached,” echoes Natasha flatly.

“I finally thought,” continues T’Challa, angry now, “that I was over you, that I had left you behind in the past, and then Barnes left and I was forced to confront the idea that I would have to see you again –”

Natasha is squeezing her fingers together so tightly they hurt, her breath shortening. “Sounds like you were real thrilled about that –”

“And however potent my fantasies were, they were nothing compared with _you,_ with your reality.” T’Challa leans in towards her, pulling himself closer. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Be honest about your feelings and not be an ass?”

“Honest,” repeats T’Challa, with a hint of a bitter laugh. “You, advocating for honesty –”

“I do tell the truth occasionally,” she snaps, nettled.

T’Challa continues, “And even if I was honest, where would that have gotten me? What good would it have done me to bare my heart when you did not feel the same –”

There’s a particular kind of angry Natasha gets that makes everything become crystal clear and start moving in slow motion. In a second she’s crouched down to grab T’Challa’s jaw, face inches from his, and he catches his breath in surprise but doesn’t flinch away. His beard is coarse under her fingers. “What,” she says, “did you think because I didn’t run towards you with open arms I didn’t care at all?”

“I assumed you moved on.” He does not break her gaze. “Like I should have.”

Natasha swallows hard, eyes flicking over T’Challa’s face and cataloguing every nuance of his expression, she can feel the heat radiating off of him, hear his breath –

“I thought you’d learned by now not to assume anything about me,” she mutters, and then she’s kissing him.

With a sharp gasp T’Challa kisses her back, one hand seizing her arm. Natasha swings a leg over his hips and then T’Challa’s grabbed her by the waist, pulling her flush up against him. Each kiss goes a little deeper, each frantic press of their lips together unlocks another tiny piece of her until she’s flushed and shaking and so close up against T’Challa that her suit buckles are probably leaving imprints on his skin. She doesn’t care.

Snaking a hand through the hair on the back of her head, T’Challa pulls Natasha down for another kiss, this one long and slow as molten metal. “I see I was wrong, then” he says, each syllable distinct, breath warm on her face, lips a hair’s breadth away from hers. “About you.”

Natasha manages a little shrug. “Won’t be the last time,” she says, tight, breathless.

His fingers in her hair tighten. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t want love.” Natasha meets his eyes, looking into rings of umber and ebony, traces a nail down his neck to see him twitch. “Once this is over I’ll leave, for a long while this time. You’ll move on.”

“And if I don’t?” It’s not wistful; it’s a challenge.

“Then that’s not my problem.”

“Damn you,” hisses T’Challa, and he kisses her, fierce and demanding, hand at the back of her neck. Natasha winds both arms around his neck, rolls her hips up against his, slides her tongue into his mouth. For a few moments, T’Challa tolerates this, until he pulls back to nip at her lower lip. “What _do_ you want?”

“I thought it was obvious.” Natasha smirks.

For some reason, T’Challa looks dissatisfied. “That’s it?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” murmurs Natasha, leaning into kiss him.

But he pulls back, frowning. “No,” T’Challa says. “I know you better than that.”

Straddling his lap, her hands on T’Challa’s shoulders, pulse pounding in her throat, Natasha lets out a slow breath and tries to decide what it is, exactly, that she wants. “I came back here because I’d left behind someone who needed me,” she says. “I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

T’Challa searches her face. “Do you think I need you?”

The urge to deflect, to start rebuilding the fragile wall between them, is strong. But there’s some lies Natasha’s never been able to tell. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “But I think I might need you.”

Sitting up straighter, T’Challa narrows his eyes. “Those are not light words, coming from you.”

“I won’t say them again,” Natasha promises, and kisses him.

T’Challa responds with an intensity that catches her off guard, lips pressed hot against hers, arms wrapped crushingly tight around her waist, fingers digging into her shoulders, and that’s when Natasha realizes exactly how much he’d been holding back –

He undoes belts and zippers with little ceremony, pulls her suit down to the waist, and Natasha frees her arms to slide her hands up under T’Challa’s shirt, over rippling muscles. When she flicks her thumbs over his nipples he twitches, grabbing her tighter. There’s a rhythm to their making out, a push, a pull, a pause for breath before diving back in again. T’Challa’s hands, hot against Natasha’s bare skin, travel down her back and reach her hips. He tugs her suit down her legs, and there’s an awkward moment where she has to fumble to take her boots off with the suit still wrapped around her thighs, but then she’s finally down to sports bra and underwear. The relief of not being encased in polyweave is immediate, air finally on her skin, and she presses her bare thighs to T’Challa’s hips and kisses him like he’s the only water in a desert.

Sliding his hands into her underwear, T’Challa grabs Natasha’s ass, and she uses it as encouragement to grind up against him. She’s already hot and sweating again, T’Challa feels like he’s burning underneath her, their skin sticking together with damp.

It’s not long before he’s taken her underwear off too.

Natasha puts a hand on T’Challa’s chest, pushing him down, and once he’s checked behind him for rocks T’Challa lies back. His hands on her hips tug her forward, and Natasha scoots up until his face is between her thighs.

When T’Challa’s mouth is on her Natasha gasps, back curving like she got a hit to the gut. And then he gets to work, hot lips and firm tongue and the brush of his beard on her inner thighs, and Natasha braces herself against a rock, breath scraping heavy in and out of her. The liquid trickling between her legs might be sweat or saliva or her own wetness, or all three.

T’Challa grabs her hips, fingers pressing into the crease of her thighs, and Natasha groans. The pressure of his tongue is consistent, insistent, and his breath is so hot on her innermost parts that it makes the rest of her feel cool. She gasps for breath and clutches the rock for support and all the while the heady tingling feeling between her legs grows and grows and grows –

When Natasha comes it’s not in a burst of white light but a series of slow, steady pulses, each one achingly good and just this side of unbearable. After the last one finally ebbs, she shakes sweaty hair out of her eyes, lets go of the rock – her knuckles ache with the force of her grip. T’Challa is placing gentle, tender kisses down along the inside of her thigh.

“ _Блядь_ ,” swears Natasha, hoarse, because that’s the only thing she can think to say. Finished with one thigh, T’Challa kisses his way back up the other; there’s a satisfied glint in his eyes, a pleased curl on the corners of his mouth.

Natasha moves back, lets T’Challa sit up, little imprints in her knees from bits of rock on the floor. Pulling her close again, T’Challa kisses Natasha, the taste of herself sharp on his mouth. He’s hard, his bulge pressing insistently against her labia even through his shorts. “Lie down again,” whispers Natasha.

He obeys immediately, and oh, does Natasha wish they’d had more time to explore _that_ aspect. But as T’Challa lays down, Natasha backs up, sliding his shorts off as she goes.

Normally Natasha’s not fond of blowjobs; she’s never been comfortable kneeling for someone. But _this_ – T’Challa stretched out before, shirt hiked up under his arms, head tilted back, his body an expanse of undulating muscle and skin like teak and the patches of dark curly hair on his chest and trailing down to his cock – this, she’s all right with. More than all right. She licks and sucks and licks again until T’Challa is shuddering, muscles in his thighs clenched, the taste of salt in her mouth, his skin silky and hot under her lips. Natasha knows his sweet spots too, hasn’t forgotten anything over those four months, and with one hand teasing his balls and the other ticking over his ribs she edges T’Challa along, waits until he’s breathing sharp and heavy with a whine in his throat and his legs are trembling to coax an orgasm out of him.

T’Challa comes with a stifled groan, one arm thrown over his eyes; Natasha slides open hands up and down his body to feel the earthquake tremors of his orgasm. Gradually, as his heaving chest slows its rise and fall, she gentles her caresses as well, watches his cock soften back down between his legs. T’Challa looks like a work of art to her, oftentimes, though she’d never admit that to him, and there’s something Michelangelan about the lines of his body, the interplay of shadow and glimmering sweat over his skin.

Crawling forward, Natasha stretches herself out along T’Challa, fitting into the space along his side. They’re both sticky and gross and probably getting dirt all over themselves – she’ll have to bring so much water back for T’Challa to wash off – but at the moment it doesn’t really matter.

T’Challa lets his arm fall from his eyes, wraps it around Natasha’s shoulders. Eyes closed, he mumbles something, a thumb brushing over her bicep.

“I didn’t catch that,” says Natasha, no sardonics in her voice, just affection.

“I said,” murmurs T’Challa, “you will be the death of me some day, Natasha.”

At the sound of her name a warm spark lights her heart, small but distinct. She loops an arm around T’Challa’s waist, hooks a leg through his. “You sure about that?”

T’Challa sighs. “No.”


	4. deep roots are not reached by the frost

Natasha’s at the spring again next morning, stiff and sore but pleased with herself. She’s got a bottle half full when a subtle noise behind her, the quietest sound of a stick shifting under a boot, sends her whirling around, dropping the bottle to pull out her gun –

“It’s me, it’s me!” says Bucky, holding his hands up. “Jesus! Still can’t get the jump on you, huh?”

He’s grubby, shirt torn, leaves in his hair, a week’s worth of beard on his chin. Natasha stares up at this disheveled apparition, heart pounding, hands still clenched on the gun.

“Nat, honey, put the gun down, would you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She does so, returning the gun to its holster as she stands. And then she slaps Bucky across the face.

Bucky grunts and staggers back. “Okay,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “I probably deserved that –”

“I thought you were _dead_!” Natasha shouts. “We thought you might have jumped off the waterfall!”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit. I didn’t think…”

“What _were_ you thinking?” Natasha demands.

Shrugging awkwardly, Bucky avoids Natasha’s gaze; she doesn’t miss that he’s got four different knives attached to various points on his body. How did he even get those? “I just wanted to get away for a few days. Be alone for a while.”

Natasha’s dizzy with a strange combination of relief and anger. “And you couldn’t have told that to anyone?”

Mouth set stubbornly, Bucky hunches his shoulders. “They wouldn’t have let me go –”

“Or at least left a note?”

Bucky cringes slightly, eyes hooded. “I figured no one would notice –”

Natasha slaps him again on the other cheek.

“All right!” yelps Bucky, jumping back. “Jesus, I get the point –”

“You’re wanted by six national governments, two international law enforcement agencies, and half the population of Wakanda, and you thought no one would notice if you just went missing?”

“I know, I know,” mumbles Bucky, shoulders up by his ears again. “I just needed to take a break.”

Natasha takes a closer look at him, noticing dark circles under his eyes and scuffed knuckles on his flesh hand. “All right,” she says, gentler. “Just don’t do it again.”

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Bucky dislodges a couple of leaves and a twig. “You came out here looking for me?”

“Yeah.”

“By yourself.”

“T’Challa’s with me,” says Natasha, nodding back towards the cave. “Though he’s a little laid up at the moment.” She bends to retrieve her water bottle and starts moving in that direction, and is relieved to see Bucky shadow her.

“Why?” asks Bucky. “Did something happen?” He’s already got a hand ready at one of his knives.

“No, he just tripped,” Natasha snorts.

Bucky cackles. “I thought cats always landed on their feet.”

That earns him a nudge to the ribs, and as she makes physical contact with him Natasha feels the tight knot she’s been carrying between her shoulders ease.

\--

“Hey,” says Natasha, as they enter the cave. “Look what I found.”

T’Challa looks up to see Bucky following behind her like a bedraggled stray. “Barnes,” he says, eyes widening. “You are all right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, hoarse. “Sorry for the false alarm. Nat says I freaked you guys out.”

“You did cause some alarm, yes.” T’Challa is seated on the floor of the cave, injured leg stretched out in front of him and propped up on his backpack. “Where did you go?”

“Around.” Bucky sits down, combs out snarls in his hair with his metal fingers. “Needed a break.”

Over Bucky’s head, T’Challa gives Natasha a look of deep incredulity; she rolls her eyes. “Well,” sniffs T’Challa, adjusting his position with a grimace. “At least you weren’t kidnapped.”

\--

Bucky’s on the balcony of his room, gazing out over the treetops, stars glimmering in the sky. Making sure her footsteps are audible, Natasha steps up beside him. “Hey,” she says. “Got you something.” And she holds out a pack of cigarettes.

“Shit, Natasha, you’re a saint,” sighs Bucky, grabbing them. He lights a cigarette by snapping his fingers, making sparks, and takes a long drag, eyes closed, before exhaling smoke. For a while, maybe fifteen minutes, they stand together in silence, leaning on the railing and watching the treetops sway slightly in the breeze. It’s another hot, damp night, moths clumsily bumping into the light on the wall; the forest hums with cicadas. 

“You know,” suggests Natasha, “maybe it’s time you got out of here for a while. Out of Wakanda.”

Bucky sighs, sending out a gray-white plume from his lips. “I dunno.”

“Seriously, if you’re getting this stir-crazy –”

“I’m not sure I can go back out there yet.” He looks at her seriously, eyes shadowed. “I know I look better, Nat. I’m not. It’s all still – you know.” Bucky taps ash off his cigarette. “It’s still all in my head, and if someone out there says the wrong thing, looks at me the wrong way –”

Natasha rests her elbows on the metal railing, crosses one ankle over the other. “It never really goes away,” she says softly. “You just get better at dealing with it.”

“I know,” and Bucky sighs heavily. “I just don’t think I’m safe. Not yet.”

“All right.”

He continues smoking in silence for a few minutes. “You changed your hair.”

“I do that occasionally.”

“Going undercover?”

Natasha props her chin on her hand, smiles at Bucky. “Tokyo. Building myself an alias.”

“No shit, Tokyo? What was that like?”

She regales him with stories of her months there, neon lights in the rain and the golden fans of gingko leaves and endless bowls of ramen. Bucky listens, eyes focused on the middle distance, occasionally asking questions but for the most part just taking it in. “You gonna go back there?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Bucky takes another long drag of his cigarette. “Sure you can’t stick around?” he asks, very quietly.

With a small smile of regret, Natasha says, “No.”

There’s a hint of worry in his eyes. “Why not?”

Considering, Natasha finally says, “I think T’Challa and I need to spend some time away from each other,” choosing her words carefully.

Bucky frowns. “Something happen?”

“Not like what you’re thinking,” and Natasha can’t help a bit of a smirk. “We just need to move on, you know? Get some distance between us.”

“Shit,” sighs Bucky, and his elbow bumps into hers. “I’m sorry about that.”

Shrugging, Natasha says, “We knew it was coming.”

“Yeah. But still.”

“Come with me,” Natasha offers suddenly. “When I leave. I’ll get you a disguise. You can come see Tokyo, we’ll go to that island with all the foxes –”

“Nat, honey, I can’t, you know I can’t –”

“I think you can,” she says, stubborn. “I think we can do it.”

Bucky smiles, but it’s a tight, unhappy expression. “I’ll consider it, all right? Not now, but maybe some other time.”

It’s the best she’ll get from him, all things considering. “All right.”

“You see Steve lately?”

Despite how desperately he tries to keep his voice casual, it doesn’t fool her. “Not recently,” Natasha says softly, lightly touching Bucky’s wrist. “But I can find him.”

“Yeah. Tell him he ought to stop by soon, you know?”

“I’ll drag him here myself,” she promises.

Bucky snorts, and grinds out the stub of his cigarette into his metal palm. “Thanks.”

\--

“I’m sorry,” says Natasha quietly. Wholeheartedly. “I didn’t think it would turn out like this.”

“It is not your fault,” says T’Challa. He’s sitting on his desk, almost glowing in the golden light of late afternoon. Dust specks dance in the sunlight streaming through the windows. “You are not to blame for my own feelings.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” Natasha stands in front of him, a careful distance away, arms folded. “I thought maybe we could have done the whole ‘friends with benefits things’ and, well…”

“Perhaps a little bit more than friends?” says T’Challa, with a wry smile.

Natasha exhales sharply in what might almost be a laugh. “Maybe.”

The humor slowly fades from T’Challa’s face, until he looks regretful, almost sad. “If you and I were other people, perhaps. If I were not the king…”

“And I wasn’t an ex-brainwashed assassin and super spy with intimacy and commitment issues?” finishes Natasha.

She was hoping to get a laugh out of him, but T’Challa only grows more somber. “I hope you find peace,” he says, so quiet and sincere it sends chills down Natasha’s spine. “I regret that I cannot be the one to give it to you.”

If she didn’t know better – if she didn’t know he was king – T’Challa would just look like a normal, very handsome guy, wearing gray jeans and an ivory Henley shirt and seated on a desk with his hands folded in his lap. The kind of guy who’s always up in the morning before she is, with a cup of coffee ready for her.

But she does know better.

Stepping forward, Natasha kisses T’Challa on the cheek, light and chaste. “You’re a good king,” she says, looking him in the eyes. “You’ll do fine.”

T’Challa nods in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

She hasn’t told him when she’s leaving, other than it’s sometime tomorrow. T’Challa could find out if he wanted to, it wouldn’t take much effort – but he won’t. Stepping back, Natasha heads for the door, and only at the threshold does she pause and look back at him. “Bye,” she says, voice catching in her throat. (Stupid, Natasha. Get it together. Put your poker face back on.)

Noble and sad, T’Challa gazes back at her. “Farewell, Miss Romanoff.”

And she turns, back into the hallway with the sunlight shining blindingly bright off its floor, and the door shuts behind her.


End file.
